


Table Talk

by sharko



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-13 01:59:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4503474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharko/pseuds/sharko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coffee. Coffee, coffee, coffee.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Table Talk

If there’s ever been such a thing as being violently, grossly, hopelessly tired, it’s what Clint’s experiencing. He’s out of coffee. Again. Kate’s gone, again, and she’s taken Lucky, again. She’ll be back (again) eventually, but right now he has no idea when that’ll be. 

He doesn’t mean to sound dramatic, but as it is the situation is starting to verge on turning desperate. No coffee means at least a couple hours of existential dread and he’s already weirdly lonely. That’s not something he wants Kate to see — hell, that’s not something he wants anyone to see. He’s got to remedy that somehow, so he drags himself off the couch, yawns, runs his hands through his hair and over his face and takes a couple, sad steps towards the counter where his phone is.

One good thing about living in the present — speed dial. He picks your number, clears his throat a couple of times, pulls at his pants (they were sagging) and presses the call button.

(you’re one of those sure-picker uppers.)

He doesn’t have to wait long. You pick up, and Clint lets out a breath. It might be relief, but he isn’t sure. Maybe he’s just a little head over heels for you. He clears his throat again. “Hey. You busy?”

“Driving,” you say, distant through the phone. He’s probably on speaker. You’re smart like that.

“So,” he says, “that means you’re on the move. Where at?”

“I was just about to go get some breakfast,” you say. Clint looks at the clock — it’s 12:25 PM — and waits. You clear your throat and correct yourself, “ _lunch._ Coffee place.”

Clint leans on the counter. “Lunch? And you didn’t invite me along?”

“Thought you were busy. Or asleep.” You pause purposefully, tastefully. “You sleep a lot when you’re off-duty. Why is that?”

“Well,” he shrugs, even if you can’t see that over the phone, “maybe I just don’t have cute folks asking me out enough. When I’m off-duty, I mean. Which place are you stopping by? Do you think you could pick anything up for me?”

“I’m sorry, do I sound like I do deliveries, Clinton?” 

“Just Clint is fine. I thought we’d gone over this.” Clint doesn’t cringe, but he wants to. “I’m out of coffee and Kate’s out.”

There’s a pause, and he wonders if he shouldn’t just make you hang up so you can call him when you’re at wherever it is you’re getting your fix. “You can’t buy your own?”

“Cut me some slack,” he says. “I’m an Avenger. Slack. Please.”

“If I didn’t know you better, Barton, I’d think you were just in this for the coffee.”

Clint smiles, stubble scratching plastic. “Found me out, have you?”

“Maybe.”

He finds himself floating in the momentary silence, stuck between the static in the phone and the ticking of the clock on the wall. The sun coming through the window is barely hitting his bare feet, but the floor all around him is warm, and he’s tempted to lie down and close his eyes.

“I’ll be over in a couple of minutes,” he hears you say, finally. “Don’t go anywhere. Crime fighting, or whatever. I’ll be mad if you do.”

He sticks his toes further into the block of light on the floor and wiggles them a little. “I’ll be here,” he says. “Rooted to the spot.”

“You better be.”

He hangs up after you do and tosses his phone on the couch. The apartment isn’t a mess, but it isn’t exactly stellar, either — he’s sure you wouldn’t mind stepping on a handful of dirty socks, but at the same time, the small, awful bit of energy he’s got stored in him until he’s got coffee in his hands and in his mouth could definitely be used to tidy up.

Clint is in the middle of throwing all his dirty socks in the laundry bin when his phone lights up with a chirp (Kate’s idea). A second later, the door chimes. On his way to answer it, he grabs the phone and checks the message — it’s Kate. Be back tomorrow. Don’t die while I’m away, ok?

( _ok,_ he texts back. _I’ll try._ )

When he opens the door, it’s you, and it’s coffee. You have coffee. You have coffee, and you walk right past him into the kitchen, setting aside the to-go cups on the counter and pulling out a bagel with cream cheese — two of them, actually. He grabs plates for the bagels while you relocate to the couch. You don’t step on any socks.

“How much was this?” He asks. The plates fit perfectly on the coffee table, which is new. He’s mildly proud of it, even if it’s already got a couple coffee spots and a few scuff marks from the move. It’s a good table.

“The coffee?” You look up at him, calm, warm. “You’re asking like you’re going to pay me back. You’re not going to pay me back, Clinton.”

“Clint,” he corrects you, and takes a sip of his coffee. “And I am. I’ve got money. You know this.”

“Really?” Now you just look amused.

“Yeah,” he says. He pats the table. “I got this the other day. Bought it. Money.”

“It’s a nice table,” you say, “but seriously. Don’t pay me back. It was coffee. I like bringing you coffee.”

“I like drinking the coffee you bring me.” He raises the cup, as if to make a point. “Even if it’s gross.”

You knock knees with him. “You’re gross.”

( _well,_ he thinks, _you kiss gross on the mouth sometimes._ )

**Author's Note:**

> It's 3:30 am and this is bad-awful. Anyway, this is like, more 2012 comic Clint than it is MCU Clint, but I hope this is alright all the same. Part one of possibly more.


End file.
